


I was in the middle before I knew I had begun

by coffeeandcheesecake



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol, Babies, Drugs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Forced Outing, Fraud, Gazebos, M/M, Modern Era, Pride & Prejudice AU, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, We've really got it all...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26665396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcheesecake/pseuds/coffeeandcheesecake
Summary: “You mean Trashmouth Tozier?” Eddie practically spits. “Jesus, Ben. I’ve seen his comedy special. It’s not exactly what I’d call highbrow.”Richie rolls his eyes. Like he hasn’t heard it from every stranger who thinks they’re God’s gift to improv. He doesn’t exactly write his own jokes so it’s hard to feel insulted.“And did you see what he was wearing?” Eddie continues. “What are those creepy little things on his shirt? Monkeys?”“I think they’re sloths,” Ben says.“Whatever they are. I’m not interested in wasting my breath on a sweaty man-child who thinks it’s funny to wear Hawaiian shirts and flip flops with socks to an adult party.”And well… that one stings. Richie sneaks a look at Bill, who is biting his lip uncomfortably. He shrugs at Richie and mouths, “Asshole.”“Huge”, Richie mouths back, framing his hands around a wide space. Well, that was a short-lived attraction.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Connor Bowers/Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 20
Kudos: 212





	I was in the middle before I knew I had begun

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when your best friend from college invites you to a party where there will be free booze, you go, even if it means spending time with his boring accountant friends.

Richie doesn’t actually mind Stan’s parties, but pretending he does just to make Stan mad is one of his few joys in life. None of Stan’s friends are familiar with his shitty comedy or his career, so he’d much rather spend time with them than, say, the college sports bar happy hour crowd. Plus this time, one of Stan’s clients is coming -- some architect he’s befriended -- and he’s bringing someone, so at the very least there will be new people to talk to.

“Oh, so we get plus ones, Stanny?” Richie asks through the Frosted Mini Wheats he just shoved into his mouth, his cell phone propped up against his ear. “Does that mean I can bring Bev?”

“Swallow your food,” Stan deadpans. “And of course you can bring Bev, but only because I like Bev, not because I’m doing you a favor.”

“That’s so sweet,” Richie says, spooning more cereal into his mouth before he’s properly swallowed the first bite. If he chokes to death annoying Stan, at least he’ll go doing something he loves. 

“Just be there at eight,” Stan sighs. “And please don’t wear the shirt. You know which one.”

He hangs up before Richie can respond, because he’s very smart. Richie fires off a text to Beverly letting her know the details and gets an “ _only ten hours to plan an outfit???_ ” text back as confirmation.

Stan could have meant several shirts from Richie’s closet, so he picks what is, in his opinion, the least offensive, which is apparently still enough to make Stan sigh heavily when he opens the door to him and Beverly at promptly eight o’clock.

“I tried to talk him into a different one,” Bev says, stepping into Stan’s hug.

“I’m sure you did your best,” he says, but he’s smiling so Richie figures he isn’t actually mad. He brings them into the kitchen where Stan’s wife, Patty, is mixing sangria in a large pitcher. Richie practically tackles her into a hug, and even though she’s quite a bit shorter than him, she’s sturdy and manages to keep both herself and the pitcher upright. She hands him a glass and whistles at Bev. 

“Give us a show, Beverly!” she says and Bev does a little spin, showing off every angle of the floral jumpsuit she probably just finished sewing an hour ago. Richie doesn’t play for her team, but he can admit that she looks insanely gorgeous.

“Come on, Rich,” Stan says, “I want you to meet Ben, the architect I was telling you about.”

Ben turns out to be the personification of the American Dream, with shoulders as wide as the purple mountain majesties, fruited plain, etc. etc. from sea to shining sea. He’s not really Richie’s type, but he has eyes, so he stays and listens to Ben’s earnest explanations of his firm’s design goals and enjoys the feeling of having a new person’s attention entirely focused upon him.

That is, until Bev walks into the living room.

Ben’s jaw basically crashes to the floor. If this were a cartoon, his heart would be visibly thumping out of his chest. Richie can almost hear the _humina, humina, humina, a-WOOGA_ sound effects. And from Bev’s look of startled delight, eyes wide and smile blinding, it’s mutual. 

“Ben,” Richie says, although he’s not sure Ben can hear him through the love fog. “This is Beverly Marsh, one of my best friends and the future of the fashion industry.”

“Beverly,” Ben says faintly. “Hello.”

“Hi,” she says softly, taking his outstretched hand and shaking it. They just stand looking at each other for a few moments while Richie watches, fighting to hide a smile. Bev hasn’t had it easy for the past few years and she’s been throwing herself into her work, so it’s nice to see her take an interest in something that isn’t her sewing machine. Ben reluctantly lets go of Bev’s hand, but draws closer to her, seemingly lost for words.

“I’ll leave you crazy kids to it,” Richie says and ducks out to get more sangria. 

He ends up snuggled up on the couch with Stan and another one of his clients, a novelist named Bill. They’re quizzing Bill on his latest plot when raised voices catch Richie’s attention and he cranes his neck to look across the room.

The snack table is the source of the conflict, where two men are squaring off, body language tense. One of them Richie recognizes: the husband of one of Stan’s co-workers. Not an asshole, if memory serves, but kind of oblivious. Richie doesn’t know the smaller guy, but he _does_ know a telling-off when he sees one. 

The smaller guy’s hand is slicing through the air and his eyebrows are drawn tightly across his forehead. Richie hears the words ‘double-dipping’ and ‘unsanitary’ float over. The other guy looks bemused and slightly offended. 

“Who is that?” Richie mutters to Stan. “The small angry one.”

“That’s Ben’s friend,” Stan says back. “Eddie, I think? Ben warned me he was a little intense.”

Intense is right. Richie doesn’t like admitting it, but it’s kind of working for him. Eddie’s body is small and compact, and his eyes take up a disproportionate amount of his face. He’s wearing jeans that hug his toned legs and Richie can admit that the arms that are currently gesticulating wildly are nicely defined. A particularly exuberant gesture nearly knocks a plant off the end table so Stan hurriedly gets up to mediate. Once he’s gone, Bill raises his eyebrows at Richie and mimes smoking.

“Oh, thank god,” Richie says. “I thought you’d never ask.”

They go to their usual smoking spot on Stan and Patty’s little balcony, but over to the side where no one can see them. Bill usually has pretty good stuff and he’s also so much fun to get high with, so Richie is taking a nice relaxing hit, letting the heat curl into his insides pleasantly and the warm June breeze ruffle his hair, when he hears that voice again, coming from the open window to Stan and Patty’s bedroom. 

“I appreciate you inviting me.” It’s the double-dip cop, Eddie, but he sounds less angry now and more resigned. “I’m just not in the mood.”

“You barely tried, Eddie.” This is Ben; Richie would recognize his calming tone anywhere, even though they had only spoken for a few minutes before he was hit by the Bev Express. “I think everyone here is really cool.”

“Like you’d know,” Eddie snorts. “You’ve been talking to one girl for two hours.”

“Beverly,” Ben says dreamily. “But there’s other nice people, too! What about her friend, Richie? I talked to him, he seems great. And Stan seemed to think you’d get along really well.”

Richie places a hand on his chest and bats his eyelashes at Bill, who snorts into his hand.

“You mean _Trashmouth Tozier_?” Eddie practically spits. “Jesus, Ben. I’ve seen his comedy special. It’s not exactly what I’d call highbrow.”

Richie rolls his eyes. Like he hasn’t heard it from every stranger who thinks they’re God’s gift to improv. He doesn’t exactly write his own jokes so it’s hard to feel insulted.

“And did you see what he was wearing?” Eddie continues. “What are those creepy little things on his shirt? Monkeys?”

“I think they’re sloths,” Ben says.

“Whatever they are. I’m not interested in wasting my breath on a sweaty man-child who thinks it’s funny to wear Hawaiian shirts and flip flops with socks to an adult party.”

And well… that one stings. Richie sneaks a look at Bill, who is biting his lip uncomfortably. He shrugs at Richie and mouths, “ _Asshole.”_

 _“Huge”,_ Richie mouths back, framing his hands around a wide space. Well, that was a short-lived attraction.

Richie doesn’t think of himself as a particularly sensitive person. His literal job is to get up in front of hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people and tell pretty bad jokes, opening himself up to hecklers and critics. He also has a bold, sometimes abrasive, personality that doesn’t vibe with everyone and he’s learned that there’s no use in trying to control how other people think of him. He knows who his friends are, he knows that they love him, and he’s not going to fall over himself to earn the approval of every random asshole on the street.

But something about this encounter sits with him, even when he and Bill stroll back into the room and it’s clear Eddie has gone. Even as the party winds down and they say their thanks-and-goodbyes and Richie crawls into the backseat of a Lyft next to Bev, he can’t stop thinking about Eddie’s harsh words.

Bev is chattering excitedly about Ben and Richie is hesitant to stomp on her moment, but when she stops to breathe, he finds himself saying, “Bev?”

She turns to him, concerned. “Yes, honey?”

“Do you think I’m a man-child?” he asks, cursing how whiny it sounds coming out of his mouth.

“No,” she says immediately. “Of course I don’t. Why?”

Richie fiddles with the buttons on his shirt. “Just something Ben’s friend said.”

“Oh, Eddie?” Bev scoffs. “Don’t listen to anything he says, Rich. He was so rude to me when Ben introduced us and then when we said goodbye, Ben actually apologized to me and said that Eddie was in a bad mood tonight. If you ask me, he looks like he’s always in a bad mood, but Ben says--”

This gives Bev a segue back into her Ben monologue and Richie happily lets her continue extolling his virtues until the car pulls up in front of his apartment building.

Richie kisses her cheek and makes her promise to text when she gets home. The car drives off and despite the fact that most of his evening had been more than pleasant, he feels like crying. He trudges upstairs to his apartment and looks around. The decor was chosen mostly by a professional designer, with Bev’s expert advice thrown in, and usually it makes Richie feel proud and grown-up. Tonight it all just rings false, like he’s sleeping in a design model, like someone else could just move in and take over his life. Is Eddie right? Is he a man-child? If he was a real adult, wouldn’t he be able to choose furniture he actually likes, to curate a space that felt like him?

Richie tries to get a hold of himself. One comment from one man he doesn’t know or like does not mean he needs to reassess his life. Time to move on. Kicking off his shoes, he wanders to his bedroom and falls onto his comforter, fully clothed.

“Fuck you, Eddie whatever-your-name-is,” he mutters and promptly falls asleep.

*

Richie wakes up feeling, if not refreshed, at least determined to put the previous night out of his mind forever. He’s successful for about two hours until Bev texts him in a flurry of emojis.

 _Sorry for not texting last night, fell asleep the second I walked in the door  
_ _I AM ALIVE  
_ _Anyway! Ben invited us to his beach house next weekend!  
_ _He’s inviting Stan and Pats too, and Bill  
_ _And before you ask, yes Eddie will be there but YOU HAVE TO COME_

Richie winces as the texts continue to roll in. The fact that Ben has a beach house is pretty wild and under usual circumstances he would already be packing his shark-patterned swim trunks. But he’s had a hard enough time putting this Eddie thing behind him and now he has to see this guy again? And sleep in the same house as him? Where he can’t get away?

Another text.

_Richieeeeeeeeeeee_

Richie rolls his eyes and taps out a response.

_omg fine yes I will go  
_ _but I will be drunk the whole time_

Bev sends about eight party popper emojis and ten cocktail emojis.

_We will have fun, I promise!!!!_

_Damn right they’ll have fun_ , Richie thinks. He’s going to have so much fun, right in front of Eddie’s face, just to show him how little he cares about what he thinks. That’ll show that pipsqueak. 

He gets a text from Bill a little while later confirming his attendance as well. Richie figures that with Bev and Bill, plus enough alcohol and weed to keep him in a comfortable haze, he can make it through the weekend.

Richie has a gig on Wednesday at a new club downtown, so that at least keeps his mind occupied and off the trip, but on Thursday morning he wakes up to an email from one Edward Kaspbrak, subject line: _Packing List and Itinerary for Beach Trip_.

“Who does this guy think he is?” Richie rants to Stan over Facetime.

“I actually think it’s really helpful,” Stan says, unhelpfully. “It’s good to know the house has towels and stuff. And I wouldn’t have known to pack a jacket for dinner at the club.”

“Ugh,” Richie says, throwing himself onto the couch. “Dinner at the club. Is there any combination of words more pretentious?”

“There’ll probably be a buffet,” Stan says. “You know you love those.”

Richie has to grudgingly admit that he does, in fact, love a buffet, and would wear a white tie and tails if it meant he could eat his weight in mussels with cream.

At least Bev is on his side, although she’s so excited to be going on a trip with Ben that she barely listens to his Eddie rant. Apparently, they’ve been on two dates this week already.

“And?” Richie prods, tossing clothes into his suitcase. “Is he, you know… proportional?”

“Richie!” Bev scolds. “Stop it. We haven’t even kissed. He’s such a gentleman.”

“You haven’t _kissed?”_ Richie asks. “And we’re going to his beach house tomorrow? Are you sure you didn’t just make a very good friend?”

“He’s just shy,” Bev protests. “And I’m fine taking it slow physically. It hasn’t been that long since… I don’t want to jump into anything too fast.”

There’s a brief silence as they both consider this. Ben seems like the polar opposite of Tom, Bev’s ex, but Richie is still glad she’s being careful.

“Anyway,” Bev finally says. “I talked to Ben a little bit about Eddie and he says he’s really embarrassed about his behavior at the party. So maybe he’ll be a little less rude?”

“I’d love to see what a little less rude looks like,” Richie says. “Maybe he’ll just insult my hair this time instead of, you know, everything about me.”

“Let him try,” Bev says, her voice getting dark, and Richie is so glad she’s his friend.

They’re all taking the day off on Friday so they can head out early, so Stan and Patty pick him up at 10am sharp, Bill already in the backseat, brow furrowed over a notebook.

“Don’t talk to me,” Bill says immediately. “I had a stroke of inspiration last night and I need to stay focused.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a regular stroke?” Richie asks. Bill glares at him.

It isn’t a terribly long drive, but Richie passes it playing a very cutthroat game of Yellow Car with Patty, who apparently has knuckles of titanium and lands a punch on Richie’s thigh that makes him yelp. They pull into the driveway behind Ben’s sensible Lexus just in time for lunch. The house is somehow both stunning and modest; it’s not nearly the largest on the street but not the smallest either. The door is unlocked, so they file into the house to find Bev, Ben, Eddie, and a handsome Black man laughing around the kitchen island.

Well, that’s both of his allies for the weekend gone. Bill will be too distracted with writing to keep him company and Bev has apparently forgotten all her loyalties. Richie stands awkwardly in the doorway as Ben jumps up to help them with their bags.

“This is Mike Hanlon,” Ben says, gesturing to the mystery man. Mike waves a hand in greeting. “He and Eddie and I all went to high school together.” 

Well, that explains how someone as nice as Ben could be friends with a dickhead like Eddie. People tend to be loyal to their high school friends. At least, Richie’s heard. He wouldn’t know. He didn’t have many friends in high school and the one he did have stayed in their small town when Richie fled for the big city. He tunes back into the present just in time to hear Ben suggest they make some sandwiches and take them down to the beach.

“Oh, and I’ll show you your rooms so you can change,” Ben says. “Actually, Eddie, can you show Richie where to put his stuff?”

Eddie nods, sliding off the island stool and motioning for Richie to follow him. He leads him upstairs to a little room, currently dark and somewhat sparse, but Richie notices it has a beautiful view of the ocean. 

“We haven’t officially met,” Eddie says and Richie jumps. He’d honestly forgotten that he and Eddie hadn’t spoken before this. “I’m Eddie.”

Richie doesn’t take the hand Eddie offers. “Richie,” he says. “How’s my shirt?”

“What?” Eddie asks, his eyebrows crinkling in confusion.

“My shirt,” Richie says, pinching the fabric with two fingers and shaking it. “Just wanted to make sure it holds up to your standards. Wouldn’t want to come across as a… what was it? A sweaty man-child?”

Richie takes vindictive delight in how quickly Eddie pales.

“You heard that?” he asks faintly, his eyes darting back and forth. “I’m… I didn’t mean…”

“I’ve got it from here,” Richie says, hauling his bag into the room and setting it on the edge of the bed. “Thanks.”

Eddie stands in the doorway with his mouth open like he’s going to say something else, but after a moment, he flees, leaving Richie to smirk as he unbuttons his shirt.

All eight of them troop down to the shoreline, laden down with sandwiches, snacks, blankets, and a massive umbrella that Bev sticks into the sand and immediately flings herself beneath, lamenting her porcelain skin. Richie lays his own towel down in the sun, happy to let her have it; he’s seen her sunburned and it isn’t pretty.

Ben, blushing like a rose, offers to help her put on sunscreen and they make eyes at each other. Patty and Stan have already gone off with a Frisbee and Bill is explaining his chickenscracth notes to a riveted Mike, which leaves Richie with…

Eddie drops down next to him, wearing neat little blue swim trunks and a linen shirt. They’re silent for a moment, then Eddie says, haltingly, “Your shorts--”

Richie whips his head around. “What’s wrong with them?” he demands. They’re his favorite pair, patterned with the JAWS logo, little dorsal fins, and shark mouths bursting from the waves. 

“No!” Eddie says, eyes wide with regret. “I like them! That’s what I was going to say. I like them.”

“All right,” Richie scoffs.

“No, I really do,” Eddie protests. When Richie doesn’t respond, he groans and rubs his face with both hands. “God, I fucking suck at this. I’m sorry.”

“It’s whatever,” Richie says. “I’m just fucking with you, dude.”

They slip into an uncomfortable silence until Stan and Patty wave him over to join their game. Richie doesn’t purposefully spray Eddie with sand when he gets up, but he doesn’t try not to either.

“You guys getting along?” Stan asks as Richie joins them.

Richie snorts. “Not exactly.”

“We should try to,” Stan says. When he says ‘we’, Richie knows he really means ‘you’ but is too kind to say it. “For Bev’s sake.”

They both look surreptitiously over to Bev and Ben, who are giggling under the umbrella.

“She seems really happy,” Richie says fondly.

“She does,” Stan agrees. “Do you know if they’ve, you know,” he makes meaningful eyebrows, “defined the relationship?”

“I think Bev wants to take it slow,” Richie says. “You know. It hasn’t been that long since Tom.”

“It hasn’t,” Stan agrees. “Just as long as Ben knows that. It’s the kind of thing you need to communicate.”

“Yes, O Wise Married One,” Richie says with a serious tone, genuflecting at Stan’s feet.

“Stop it,” Stan says, laughing, but Richie won’t stop crowing about Stan’s eternal and everlasting wisdom until he puts Richie in a headlock, at which point Patty runs over to join in on the wrestling and they all three tumble over in a tangle of limbs.

When the whole group trudges back up to the house, sun-sleepy and sandy, Richie watches Bev and Ben interact. It’s so obvious to him how much they like each other. Ben takes any opportunity he can to touch her, whether it’s brushing sand from the back of her arm or stealing her sunglasses so she has to playfully bat at him to return them. As for Bev, maybe it’s just because Richie knows her, but he can tell she’s smitten. She hangs on his every word and her cheeks have a permanent pinkish glow. As they head into the house, Richie notices that Eddie is watching, too.

They all clean up for dinner, which apparently Eddie is cooking. 

“Do you need help, Eddie?” Bev asks kindly. Richie glares at her. _Traitor._

“No, I’m more comfortable doing it by myself,” Eddie says, somewhat stiffly.

“Eddie has a system,” Ben explains.

“God forbid we disrupt the _system_ ,” Richie smirks.

Eddie’s eyes dart between Richie and Bev. “I mean. Beverly, you could chop vegetables. If you want.”

“Happy to,” Bev says, shooting Richie a look. 

Richie ignores her and goes to find Mike and Bill, who are sitting quite close on the couch and conversing avidly about Bill’s story notes.

“That’s genius,” Bill is saying. “This has been more helpful than every conversation with my editor. Have you ever thought about getting into publishing?”

Mike laughs. “I like my small-town librarian job, thanks. But I enjoy talking through plot.” He nods at Richie. “You having a good time?”

“Yeah, of course, man,” Richie says.

“How’s your nemesis?” Bill asks, and cracks up at the confused look on Mike’s face.

“You mean Eddie, right?” Mike asks. “He… doesn’t always make a great first impression.”

“Or a second, or a third...” Richie says darkly.

“Fair enough,” Mike laughs. “He’s a good guy, really. He’s just not great in social situations. But I’ve never known anyone more loyal in my life.” He squeezes Bill’s shoulder. “I’m going to go take a shower. But we should talk more about that crime subplot during dinner.”

Bill watches him leave the room, then without even looking at Richie, says, “I’m going to marry that man.”

“Fantastic,” Richie monotones. “Maybe you and Bev and Ben can have a double wedding. Me and Eddie can be the best men.”

Bill isn’t even listening to him, still watching the door where Mike disappeared with a hunger in his eyes.

To Richie’s disappointment, the dinner is fantastic. He compliments Bev loudly on the perfectly cut vegetables, but he also goes back for thirds of Eddie’s lasagna, which he sees Eddie notice with a private smile.

Richie had, in protest, refused to read through Eddie’s itinerary, so he doesn’t know what to expect for the evening, but it’s shockingly unstructured. The liquor flows freely and there are games of UNO (Richie learned long ago that playing with Patty is a risk; she has a habit of throwing cards), charades (Eddie is weirdly good at it and racks up point after point for his, Mike, Stan, and Richie’s team), and a very short game of Never Have I Ever that they’re all entirely too drunk for, during which Bill falls asleep on the couch before anyone has more than one finger down.

They all wander off to bed, Richie absolutely sure that his full belly and booze-soaked brain will mean a deep night’s sleep. Unfortunately, maybe due to the small bed, or his confusing feelings about the day’s interactions, he tosses and turns for most of the night. When the sun starts to peek through the blinds, he puts on his glasses and heads out the sliding door onto the deck. He doesn’t realize that someone is already there until he hears a quiet, “Hi, Richie.”

“Oh, Jesus fuck,” Richie jumps about a foot in the air and clutches his chest. He sees Eddie curled up in one of the patio chairs, wrapped in a duvet, looking up at him with his big doe eyes. “Don’t _do_ that!”

“Sorry,” Eddie says.

Richie suddenly feels awkward and wrong-footed. He still burns when he thinks about Eddie’s snotty remarks, but he also remembers what Mike said about Eddie’s loyalty and how pleased he had been about everyone’s enjoyment of the dinner he prepared.

“I didn’t mean to crash,” he says, motioning to the patio. “I can… go…”

“No, it’s all right,” Eddie says, motioning to one of the other chairs. “Stay, please.”

Richie folds his long limbs into the chair opposite Eddie. It’s more comfortable than his bed; he might just fall asleep right here.

There’s a long silence, but it’s strangely peaceful. The sun, which had just begun crawling over the horizon when Richie came outside, is now spreading like butter over the gently churning water. 

“You couldn’t sleep either?” Richie finally asks.

Eddie shrugs. “I don’t usually sleep very well,” he says. “But I love the sunrises here. There’s only one other place I’ve ever been that has sunrises like this.”

“Where?” Richie asks, surprising himself that he actually wants to know.

“In my hometown,” Eddie says softly. “There’s a big cliff that looks over a quarry. Ben and Mike and I used to go swimming there in middle school. We stopped when we were older, but when I couldn’t sleep I would go there and watch the sun rise. Sometimes it felt like it was rising just for me.”

Richie can barely breathe. The person in front of him, softened with lack of sleep, glowing in the early morning light… this person is antithetical to the Eddie he knows. But then, he doesn’t really know that Eddie, does he?

He doesn’t know what to say. Eddie looks over, mistakes his silence for judgment, and blushes. “It’s stupid,” he says. “I didn’t have a… a great childhood sometimes and so the things I… it’s stupid.”

“No,” Richie finally croaks. “It’s not stupid.”

Eddie turns those big eyes on him again. Richie’s breath catches.

“I didn’t,” he distracts himself by scratching the back of his head. “I didn’t have it easy either. I was such an easy target, big coke-bottle glasses and buck teeth. And then once I realized I was gay--”

“What?” Eddie says sharply. “You’re not gay.”

There’s the Eddie Richie has been dreading. He decides to go the comedy route instead of the yelling route.

“I’m not?” Richie asks in faux horror, pressing a frantic hand to his chest. “Who’s going to tell all my ex-boyfriends?” He gasps. “Who’s going to tell my _mom?_ ”

Eddie blushes furiously, wrapping his blanket further around himself. “I just mean I’ve heard your act,” he says. 

“I recall,” Richie says sarcastically. “I believe you referred to it as ‘low-brow’.”

“No,” Eddie says, a little stubborn. “Just not high-brow. And aggressively heterosexual.”

Richie shrugs. “I’ve got ghostwriters. I’m out, but I’m not _out-_ out.” He spreads his fingers into jazz hands. “Douchey frat humor sells.”

Eddie considers this. “That sucks,” he finally says decisively. 

“Pays the bills,” Richie says.

“I mean it sucks for you,” Eddie says. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

That takes Richie by surprise. He’s emotionally distanced himself from the fact that his comedy doesn’t feel at all personal; it pays well and he gets to do what he loves, which is make people laugh. But he’s struck at once by the memory of the first time he’d stood up on stage and said “my girlfriend”, how it had felt a little bit like chipping a tooth. It didn’t hurt, but it felt wrong in his mouth. His agent had promised him that it was just to establish him as a name, but the years had passed and no discussion had ever been initiated about transitioning out of frat boy humor. He’s Richie Tozier, Male Chauvinist, and that isn’t going anywhere.

“You’re right,” Richie says finally. “I shouldn’t.”

The sun has fully risen, giving the whole beach a heavenly glow. Richie and Eddie watch it make its way across the sky, smearing pink and orange like paint, and neither of them say another word.

Richie does end up falling asleep in the patio chair. When he wakes, the sun is high in the sky, he can hear the chatter of the rest of the group making breakfast, and Eddie’s duvet is tucked tenderly over his shoulders.

*

The following day is strange, to say the least. As Richie had anticipated, the way the group has paired off means he’s stuck with Eddie most of the time, but oddly, it doesn’t bother him like he thought it would. For the most part, Eddie is quiet and withdrawn, clearly nervous to say the wrong thing, and this is basically an invitation for Richie to rib him as much as possible until he explodes.

“Oh my god, do you ever shut up?” Eddie finally snaps during Hour Three of Richie’s new routine, privately entitled _Annoy Eddie Forever_. “Are you worried that if you stop talking you’ll die?”

Ben blanches and Mike shoots Bill a worried glance, but Richie hoots with laughter and shakes Eddie gently by the shoulders. 

“I will absolutely die,” Richie says. “Will you do my eulogy, Eddie? I don’t trust anyone else to be completely truthful about my life.”

Eddie flushes with embarrassment but his lips bear a small smile.

They all spend the day on the beach again, this time alternating between laying in the sand and diving into the ocean. Richie can’t help but notice that his early assessment of Eddie underneath his practical jeans and polos was accurate: he is disturbingly fit. At one point, he emerges from the water as if in slow motion, water sluicing off his chest and muscular legs, and Richie feels certain parts of his body sit up and take interest. 

It doesn’t _mean_ anything, he’s only human, but it bothers him enough that he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Sports Illustrated’s Eddie Kaspbrak, everyone!”

The rest of the group catch on and begin to whoop and catcall. Eddie blushes and kicks sand in Richie’s direction, but he can tell he’s pleased because he runs his hand through his hair, showing off a very nice bicep. 

They do end up going to the club that night for dinner. Richie very reluctantly puts on a jacket but gets his kicks by wearing a tie that blatantly clashes with his socks. He sees Eddie notice in the car on the way over, but shockingly, he doesn’t do anything except smile.

Stan was right. There is a buffet and Richie does stuff himself full of shellfish.

“Are you seriously going back for more shrimp?” Eddie hisses at one point. “Shellfish from a buffet? Do you have a death-wish?” 

“Live in the moment, Eddie,” Richie says, reaching out and pinching Eddie’s cheek. Eddie swats him away, blushing. 

After dinner, they walk through the small beach town, ostensibly taking the long route back to their cars, until Bev spots a little bar with a sign that says SWING DANCING TONIGHT, 9-11PM.

“Oh, can we?” she asks. Ben is already following her.

Ben and Bev immediately disappear into the crowd; the last thing Richie sees is the hem of her dress as Ben twirls her. Mike and Bill go straight to the bar and Stan and Patty head off to find a table, which leaves Eddie looking up at Richie through his disgustingly long eyelashes.

“Do you know how to swing dance?” he asks somberly, as if terrified of the answer.

“Nope,” Richie says. “But that’s never stopped me before.”

He grabs Eddie’s hands and starts to imitate how he’s seen people swing dance in the movies; a lot of fancy footwork and whirling around. He pirouettes Eddie in and then back out again, which makes Eddie bleat with laughter. Richie doesn’t know what it is, but Eddie’s laugh ignites something in him, something that makes him want to do anything he can to hear it again. 

Eddie tries to do a similar twirling trick, but instead of a smooth dance move, Richie crashes into Eddie’s chest, almost sending them both toppling to the floor.

“Careful,” Eddie chuckles and it’s only then that Richie realizes how close they are, hands tangled, breath mingling as they laugh. Eddie looks up at him again, his gaze careful but determined, and if Richie didn’t know better, he’d think Eddie was about to kiss him.

“Uh,” he says. “I’m suddenly dying of thirst. Want anything?”

He takes his hands back, telling himself he’s imagining the disappointment on Eddie’s face, and flees to the bar. He can’t find Bill and Mike anywhere, but he needs a moment alone anyway, so he perches himself on a barstool to catch his breath. 

Eddie was _not_ going to kiss him. Eddie only just barely started to not-despise him. And even if Eddie was going to kiss him, he doesn’t want that, does he? So why is his heart beating so fast he feels like he can’t breathe?

He orders a shot of bottom-shelf whiskey from the bartender and downs it, trying to ignore how his hand is shaking.

“Rough night?” someone asks and Richie turns.

The man standing in front of him is framed by the light from the streetlamps coming through the window, the halo giving his golden curls a shimmering glow. His eyes are blue like the ocean they played in this morning and they look just as deep. 

“No,” he finds himself saying. “Rough week, actually.”

The man pouts, leaning up against the bar, which brings him closer to Richie. 

“Can I get you another?” he asks. “Or maybe a real drink? You look like you need it.”

Richie snorts a laugh. “Wow, what a compliment.”

The man chuckles too, but he keeps moving closer. “I just mean you look sad,” he says, blue eyes wide. “I’d like to cheer you up, if I can.”

Richie isn’t completely convinced he isn’t hallucinating this beautiful man hitting on him, so he just decides to go with it. He turns away from the bar to face the man, spreading his legs in a not-so-subtle signal. The man grins and steps towards him, not quite in between his legs, but like he knows he’ll get there eventually.

The man motions to the bartender and, as if by magic, two cocktails are placed on the bar before them. 

“Cheers,” the man says, lifting his drink.

Richie is about to touch the two glasses together when he hears Eddie approach.

“Richie, I’m really sorry if I--” He stops, staring at Richie and the other man in front of him. “Connor.”

“Eddie,” the other man, Connor apparently, says. The warmth that was present in his voice is gone. “I didn’t know you were here this weekend.”

Eddie stiffens. All of the relaxation that Richie has seen Eddie undergo over the last few days vanishes and standing in front of him is the man from the party, shoulders at his ears, scowl carved into his mouth.

“I’ll get you a copy of my social calendar so this won’t happen again,” he says through gritted teeth. “Richie, if anyone asks, I’m walking home.” He turns on his heel and stomps out the door.

Connor rubs the spot in between his eyes. “I didn’t realize you knew Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“I don’t really,” Richie says hurriedly. “Our friends are dating, kind of. I barely know him. In fact, he only stopped being an asshole to me about five minutes ago.”

Connor laughs, but it’s humorless. “Yeah, that sounds like Eddie. Look,” he drops his voice and gets closer to Richie, as if to whisper in his ear. “I’d be careful of him, if I were you. I’ve known him basically my whole life and he’s...” Connor pauses and Richie can feel the puffs of his breath across his cheek. “Well, he’s not to be trusted.”

“Noted,” Richie says, already sick of talking about Eddie. He wants to go back in time, to before Eddie rudely interrupted them.

Connor sighs and Richie feels it deep in his chest. 

“I should probably go anyway,” he says mournfully. “I don’t want to run into anyone else from his group. But do you live in the city?” When Richie nods, Connor reaches into his pocket and hands over a thick, embossed business card. 

_Connor Bowers_ , it reads _, Financial Consultant._

“Text me when you’re back,” he says, his large white teeth bared in a stunning smile. “We’ll get together. Without interruptions this time.”

“Definitely,” Richie breathes.

Connor gives him another winning grin and strides out, hips swaying. Richie watches the door long after he’s gone, until the bartender slaps the bill down in front of him. 

“Your friend’s drink is on there, too,” he says.

“Oh,” Richie says. In all of the confusion caused by Eddie, Connor must have forgotten. 

Ben and Bev find him a few moments later, out of breath but clutching each other delightedly.

“You ready to head home?” Ben asks, a smile seemingly engraved onto his face, his arm wrapped tightly around Bev. “Where’s Eddie?”

Richie drains the last of his cocktail. “He said he wanted to walk.”

Ben’s grin dims slightly, but then Bev says, “It’s a lovely night for a walk,” and he beams. 

“Let’s walk, then,” he says, rubbing her shoulder, and they set off, leaving Richie behind them as he scans the crowd for the rest of their group.

Stan and Patty see him looking and come to join him and they spend several minutes looking for Mike and Bill, only to find them wrapped around each other, connected at the mouth, near the back wall.

“Bill,” Richie barks, in absolutely no mood to deal with other people’s romantic shenanigans.

Both men surface but, to Richie’s annoyance, do not disentangle. 

Stan stabs his thumb at the door. “We’re heading out.”

“Oh,” Bill says, apparently unable to take his eyes off of Mike’s mouth. “We should--”

“Yes,” Mike agrees to whatever Bill has just psychically communicated to him and with barely a glance at Richie, Stan, and Patty, they also take off into the night.

“All right,” Stan says drily. “Need a ride, Richie?”

“Please,” Richie says.

During the car ride home, Richie tells Stan and Patty about the last few hours, from he and Eddie’s maybe-almost-kiss to the fantastical entry of Connor Bowers to Connor and Eddie’s mysterious past.

“It sounds very dramatic,” Stan says in his usual no-nonsense way.

“Are you going to call this Connor guy, Rich?” Patty asks, turning around in her seat to look at Richie in the backseat.

Richie takes the card out of his pocket and looks at it again. He liked talking to Connor, but he also can’t rid himself of the look on Eddie’s face when he saw them together, and Mike’s voice in his head saying, “ _I’ve never known anyone more loyal in my life._ ”

He pushes those thoughts aside.

“Yeah, I think so,” he says.

*

They all wake late the next day so most of the morning is spent packing and closing up the house. Bill and Mike have an embarrassingly long kiss before Richie literally shoves Bill into the backseat and slams the door behind him.

“I’d like to get back to New York sometime today, please,” he snarks to Bill, who is waving dreamily at Mike as he is similarly wrestled into the other car by Eddie. 

“Jealous,” Bill says, his tone still light.

“Get much writing done, Bill?” Richie says. “Have you learned how to type while your tongue is in someone else’s mouth?”

“It’s going great,” Bill fires back. “Mike is my muse.”

“Oh my god,” Richie groans, thudding his head onto the seat in front of him.

“Don’t do that,” Stan scolds.

It’s a long drive back to the city. 

Bev calls almost as soon as he’s home to talk about Ben, how caring and patient and wonderful and kind and strong and blah, blah, blah…

“Did you guys talk about going slow?” Richie asks, smelling a pair of socks before tossing them back into his dresser.

“We will,” Bev says. “When I talk to him about it, I want to be able to tell him why, so I’m just trying to build up the courage to have that conversation.”

“Understandable,” Richie hums.“We didn’t really have time to talk about it, anyway. On our walk home, we ended up seeing some guy Ben knew back in high school and it really rattled him.”

Richie is only half-listening as he tosses clothes into his hamper, so he makes an assenting noise.

“Ben can barely bring himself to say anything mean about anyone, but I could tell it was bad. We didn’t even talk to him or anything, just saw him across the street, but Ben said that was probably why Eddie was upset, too.”

“Mmm,” Richie says. Did he leave his toothbrush at the house? No, it’s right here.

“Did you have a good time this weekend?” Bev asks.

“Yeah, it was a blast,” Richie says. “I met a guy I think I’m going to call.”

Bev squeals and encourages him to keep her updated. When Richie hangs up, he pulls out Connor’s business card again and texts _I think you owe me a drink_.

He hears back almost immediately, Connor just as charming via text as he is in person.

 _Is that so? Well I’m happy to remedy that.  
_ _This Tuesday? King Cole at 8pm?_

Richie raises his eyebrows.

_king cole, huh? fancy_

_I’d think you’d be used to it, superstar._

Richie is a little surprised to hear that Connor knows who he is. He didn’t seem like a fan and Richie is pretty C-list to those not in his target demographic. 

_that’s right_ , he answers anyway _, glad to see you’ll be keeping me in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed_

 _See you there, handsome_ , is Connor’s response.

Richie can’t help the shiver that travels up his spine. He travels through the next few days in a fog, barely paying attention to the meetings with his agent and publicist. When Tuesday night finally arrives, he spends way too long in front of the mirror, trying to look like a real adult. He’s not even wearing one of his brightly patterned button-ups, but instead a nice long-sleeve shirt and a tie. Eddie would probably be impressed. 

_Why are you thinking about Eddie?_ Richie chastises himself. _You’re literally going on a date with a guy you actually like._

Richie has only been to the King Cole Bar once before, to celebrate his special getting picked up by Comedy Central. For all his flirting with Connor, places like this aren’t his style and he doesn’t feel comfortable as he takes a seat at the bar to wait.

Connor shows up a few minutes late, looking dapper and polished and like some kind of hallucinatory fantasy, just like he had the other night. He greets Richie with a fleeting kiss on the cheek that promises more.

Richie had ordered them both drinks on the cheaper side of the menu, not trying to be an asshole, but Connor quickly drains his and orders two craft cocktails, as well as a dozen oysters.

The conversation between them flows easily, Connor’s flirty banter lining up well with Richie’s teasing. He’s holding back a little, but that’s normal for first dates, isn’t it? Not that he’s been on that many. He hasn’t met anyone in recent years he wanted to get to know better, and with his career being how it is, he hasn’t been motivated to date casually.

“So, I have to ask,” Connor says, finishing his second drink and motioning to the bartender for another. “How much do you know about Eddie?”

Richie shrugs. “Nothing really. Like I said, his friend Ben is dating my friend Bev, so I’ve only seen him a couple times.”

“You should keep it that way,” Connor says, leaning forward as if delivering a grave secret. “I didn’t want to say anything until I knew you a little better, but Eddie Kaspbrak is an awful person.”

“Believe me, I’m aware,” Richie says, the words _man-child_ echoing around in his brain. For a moment, he also remembers Eddie’s sweet, embarrassed expression when Richie teased him, but he pushes that down.

“Whatever you think you know,” Connor says. “It’s worse.”

This makes Richie take notice and he leans into Connor’s confidence.

“Is my friend Bev okay dating Ben?” he asks. “And what about Mike Hanlon?”

Connor waves his hand dismissively. “Ben and Mike are harmless,” he says. “But Eddie has them both under his thumb. He’s completely manipulative, has been since we were kids.”

“You grew up with all of them?” Richie asks.

Connor nods somberly. “Eddie and I were friends. We told each other everything. When I started to wonder if I was gay, he was the first person I told and he,” Connor turns away and Richie sees what looks like a tear glimmering in his eye, “he told everyone. The whole school. I almost had to drop out.”

Fire courses through Richie’s veins. How fucking _dare_ Eddie act like his childhood was hard when he had made someone else’s so terrible? Richie folds his hand over Connor’s, who lets out a dry sob and clutches his fingers. 

“It was difficult,” he says, choked. “But I’m… I’m okay now. It just makes me so angry that he’s never had to suffer any consequences for it. And now he just gets to leech off of Ben Hanscom for the rest of his life.”

“Leech?” Richie asks. “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t work,” Connor says. “He just lives in Ben’s house rent-free and follows him around, using his money and his name. I told you, Richie… he’s manipulative. He doesn’t think like a normal person, he just does whatever he wants. I don’t want you getting wrapped up in that. You’re a good person. I can tell.”

“I appreciate you telling me,” Richie says, rubbing his thumb on the back of Connor’s hand.

“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” Connor says, quietly, drawing closer.

“I promise,” Richie says, his heart thudding in his chest as Connor’s lips hover over his. 

A sudden _bzzzzt_ between them makes Connor’s breath hitch and he pulls back to yank his phone out of his pocket.

“Fuck,” he mutters, thumbing across the screen. “ _Fuck.”_

“Everything okay?” Richie asks, still dazed from how close Connor’s lips had been to his.

“It’s work,” Connor says, glaring at his phone. “I think I have to go put out some fires. Let me just…” He reaches into his inner jacket pocket, then frowns, patting down his pants as well. “Oh, come _on_.” He looks at Richie, his face ashen. “I think I left my wallet at home.”

He looks so devastated that Richie immediately pulls out his own billfold and sets his card on the bar.

“No, this was supposed to be my treat,” Connor whines. “If I just run back to my apartment, I can--”

“Forget it,” Richie says, waving the bartender over. “Go put out your work fire. You can get it next time.”

“You’re the best,” Connor says and sweeps in suddenly to land a kiss on the side of Richie’s mouth before dashing out of the bar.

Richie’s face burns. He touches the side of his mouth and can’t hide his smile, even as he tips and signs the exorbitant bar bill.

He basically floats home in a daze, texting Bev only a series of hearts as a response to her _how was it???_

He wonders whether he should tell her about Connor’s accusations of Eddie, but he doesn’t want to burst her Ben bubble. He figures once the two of them have made their relationship official, he can start asking questions about Ben’s friendship with Eddie.

June in New York City is hot and dry and Richie finds himself aching for rain. His hometown in Maine would probably be flooded by now, gorgeous summer showers that would make the whole town smell damp and clean. He hasn’t been back in years, his parents having moved to Florida to retire and his sister to a different small town once she got married.

In fact, he’s been waiting for her call lately, mere weeks away from the birth of her second child. He’s promised to come up and watch his niece so that Peggy and her husband can focus on the new baby and, as the due date approaches, he finds himself checking his phone with twice the frequency he normally would.

In the meantime, he sees Connor a few more times, at Richie’s place or a bar. The one time Richie suggests they go to Connor’s place, he rolls his eyes.

“My apartment is being renovated right now,” Connor says. “So I’m mostly living with my cousin and his place is a sty.”

There have been only brief repeats of the farewell kiss Connor gave him at King Cole, all goodbyes and all over too soon for Richie’s taste. He should probably take a leaf out of his own book and talk to Connor about where this is going, but he figures it can wait until after Peggy’s baby is born. He’s not in any hurry.

He’s monitoring his texts as usual during brunch with Bev when she lets out a discontented sigh and lets her own phone clatter to the table.

“What’s up?” Richie asks, setting his aside.

“Nothing,” Bev grumbles. “It’s just that Ben hasn’t texted me in like, three days.”

“At all?” Richie asks incredulously. Last time they’d talked, Bev and Ben had been texting nonstop since their beach trip. 

“I mean, he has,” Bev says, mouth twisting as she considers her phone. “But not as frequently as he used to. And he seems… I don’t know, distracted. Like he doesn’t really want to be talking.”

“Maybe he’s just busy with work,” Richie suggests.

“Yeah,” Bev says, trying for reassured and failing miserably. “Maybe.”

He ends up texting Bill about it, wondering if Mike has said anything, and gets such a strange, brief _idk_ from Bill that he immediately calls him.

“Richie,” Bill says warningly when he picks up the phone.

“Billiam,” Richie says, equally warningly.

“I don’t know anything,” Bill says, with the voice of someone who absolutely knows something.

“You are the worst liar,” Richie says. “Tell me right now.”

“I don’t _know_ anything,” Bill says again. “But… Mike did say something about… Eddie.”

“What about Eddie?” Richie asks, trying to keep it casual but knowing his voice is getting dangerously low.

“I don’t _know anything,_ ” Bill repeats. “But apparently Eddie has been… fairly open with Ben about how… well, I guess he encouraged Ben to move on.”

“Move on?” Richie asks, fighting to keep his voice under control.

“Move on… from Bev.”

That’s it. 

“Ex _cuse me?_ ” Richie practically screeches into the phone.

“I told you, I told you, I don’t _know this for sure_ ,” Bill says quickly. “Don’t freak out, Rich.”

“Don’t freak out?” Richie demands. “Don’t freak out? Oh, that little weasel. He’s fucking manipulative, all right. That _creep_.”

“I think he’s just really protective,” Bill pipes up, but Richie ignores him, beginning to pace the length of his apartment.

“I am going to _rip_ his _muscular little arms_ out of his torso and _shove them down his throat,_ ” Richie seethes. 

Bill sighs. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You _absolutely should have,_ never keep anything from me ever again.”

“I don’t even really know that’s what happened,” Bill says. “And I don’t want to get Mike in trouble.”

“Don’t worry, my friend, the only person getting in trouble is that conniving, evil--”

“I gotta go, Rich,” Bill says tiredly. “Please try not to murder anyone.”

“No promises,” Richie says savagely. He pulls up his text thread with Bev, fingers hovering over the buttons, but he can’t bring himself to text her. Maybe it’s better she doesn’t know. Would she feel better knowing that Ben was so easily swayed or would it make her feel worse?

Before he can make a decision, his phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Peggy.

_THUNDERCATS ARE GOOOOOOOOO_

Richie stares at his phone for a full minute before texting about a hundred exclamation points and an “ _on my way!!!”_

He texts Bev, Stan, and Patty a group text: _baby on the way! off to maine!_ and gets a blizzard of excitement and dancing gifs in response. 

He hesitates before sending a text to Connor as well: _I’ll be out of town for a few weeks, any way you could come by and water my plants?_

Connor responds: _You have plants?_

Richie smirks and responds: _No, actually, could you buy some, put them in my apartment, and then come by and water them?_

_No problem. Should I stop by and grab a key?_

_I’ll leave it under the mat. Feel free to hang around until I get back :)_

He tosses his phone aside and focuses on packing and getting a quick flight to Bangor. Once he’s there, he’ll rent a car to drive the rest of the way. It’s only when he thumps into the cab with his bag that he remembers the fury that had been crawling up his throat before Peggy texted him. He pushes it down as best he can; his sister is bringing new life into this world and he’ll be damned if he shows up to see his brand new niece or nephew in a rotten mood.

He focuses all of his energy on getting through security and to his gate and ends up sleeping hard on the plane. He rents a car to drive the remaining hour from Bangor to Derry and goes straight to his sister’s house.

He bursts in, expecting pandemonium, but his sister, her husband, Adam, and their four-year-old are sitting calmly at their kitchen table, eating lunch.

“Did I miss it?” Richie demands. “Aren’t these things usually more… I don’t know, immediate?”

“Oh, Rich,” Peggy says. “You watch too many movies.”

Apparently, the contractions have barely started, but they’re going to head to the hospital as soon as little Angela is done with her PB&J.

“Hey, Jelly,” Richie says, landing a kiss on top of her blonde head. “You excited to have a new little sibling?”

“No,” Angela says, disinterested, taking another bite of her sandwich.

“Why not?” Richie asks. “Your mom had a little brother and it was the best thing that ever happened to her.”

Angie gives him a suspicious look. “Who?”

“ _Me,_ Angela.”

Peggy snorts a laugh. Richie makes a face at her and she makes a face back. Once the lunch dishes have been cleaned up, they head to the hospital, Richie following in his rental car.

Twelve extremely stressful hours later, Richie is holding his new little nephew in his arms. Angela is largely unimpressed and keeps rubbing her toddler fists into her eyes, so Richie offers to take her home so she can sleep in her own bed.

Richie tries his best to be a good houseguest while Peggy and Adam are still at the hospital: doing laundry, tidying, and keeping Angela distracted so she doesn’t miss her parents too much. It’s oddly the most relaxed he’s been in weeks; he’s distracting himself just as much as the kid so he doesn’t think about Eddie. 

Peggy and Adam return and announce that despite Grandma Lerner almost losing her mind when their mother had named her daughter after herself, they have decided to follow her example and name the new baby Richard. Richie absolutely weeps when they tell him and apologizes to the baby for landing him with such a shitty name. He’s dusting in the living room the next day when the doorbell rings. Peggy is relaxing on the couch, holding Richard, and she peeks through the living room curtains.

“Oh, it’s our neighbor’s son,” she says. “He’s up here all the time from the city to take care of her. I think she’s sick. She’s been in and out of the hospital for years.”

Richie swings open the door and his brain short-circuits.

Eddie is standing on the porch, eyes wide, clutching a casserole dish in both hands.

“Hello,” he says.

Richie is speechless.

“Uh,” Eddie says. “I heard you… I heard that Peggy and Adam had a baby. I brought…” He holds up the tupperware.

“Is that your lasagna?” Richie hears himself say.

Eddie smiles, the panic leaching out of his face somewhat. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I, uh. I’ve brought it over before, and Peggy always likes it.”

Adam suddenly appears at Richie’s shoulder. 

“Hey, Eddie!” he says cheerfully. “This is Peg’s brother Richie. Richie, our neighbor’s son, Eddie.” He spots the dish. “Some of your famous lasagna? Peggy will be thrilled. Come in and see the baby!”

“Oh, I--” Eddie’s eyes dart back and forth between Richie and Adam, but Adam seizes his arm and drags him into the house. Richie follows, still in somewhat of a haze. All of the fire he had been feeling towards Eddie, all of that rage, felt blanketed somehow by seeing his face, the surprise and anxiety he clearly felt at finding Richie behind a familiar door. This was Connor’s high school bully, the manipulating evil genius?

“Hi Eddie,” Peggy says, waving him over to show off tiny, sleeping Richard. 

Adam takes the casserole off of Eddie’s hands and Richie feels his breath catch in his throat when Eddie leans forward and gently nudges Richard’s little clenched fist. Richard stretches in his sleep and takes a hold of Eddie’s finger. 

“He likes you,” Peggy whispers and Eddie’s resulting smile is blinding. 

All of Richie’s conflicting feelings are churning in his stomach and it’s making him nauseated. 

“I’m glad you got to officially meet Richie, too,” Peggy says. 

“We’ve… actually, we’ve...” Eddie blushes.

“We’ve met,” Richie says shortly.

“Really?” Adam says.

“Oh, you know New York,” Richie deadpans. “A famously small town.”

Eddie looks at Richie over the baby’s head and gives him a small smile. Richie panics, yanking the tupperware from Adam’s hands and saying, “I’ll go put this away, shall I?”

He hides in the kitchen until he’s sure Eddie has gone, although he can hear Adam telling Eddie to come over and have a beer sometime soon and resolves to mysteriously have plans should that come to pass. He doesn’t know how to feel anymore; seeing Eddie in person has him all wrong-footed.

Peggy and Adam have nothing but positive things to say about Eddie as they prepare the lasagna for dinner: what a responsible son he is to spend so much time with his ailing mother, how he shovels their driveway when it snows and mows their lawn in the summer. It sounds as if he lives there at least half the year, which calls into question one of Connor’s accusations. What could be interpreted as Eddie taking advantage of Ben to live somewhere rent-free now comes across as Ben offering him a place to stay so he doesn’t have to pay for an apartment year-round.

Richie can’t wrap his head around anything anymore. After dinner, he rushes through the usual nighttime routine of Angela’s bath and bedtime story and heads out on a walk to clear his tumultuous thoughts. 

He strolls down the street, hands shoved into his pockets, and he’s almost to the end of the block when he hears, “Hey, Richie!”

He turns to see Eddie jogging towards him. He’s furious that his first thought is to notice how gorgeous Eddie looks when he runs. It looks like what his body was born to do.

“Hey,” Eddie says when he reaches him, barely out of breath. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Richie is silent long enough for Eddie to wilt slightly, but he eventually says, “Yeah, why not.”

They walk in silence, Eddie scuffing his feet, Richie occasionally kicking a pebble to watch it thunk satisfyingly into the storm drains. Richie hadn’t noticed when he left the house, but the sky had been growing grey and, all of the sudden, they’re in the middle of a downpour.

“Fuck!” Richie yells. It’s so warm he isn’t wearing a jacket, so there’s nothing to hold over his head.

“Follow me!” Eddie says, tugging on his sleeve. “There’s a park near here, we can take cover!”

Richie follows Eddie down the street to a charming little park, a white gazebo glowing like a beacon. There’s a bench inside that they collapse onto, soaking wet but at least not getting any worse. 

“These Maine storms,” Eddie laughs, wiping rain off of his face and shaking out his hair. Richie sort of can’t take his eyes off of him. “I promise you, this will be over in about ten minutes.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Richie says, watching the sheets of rain move across the park.

Eddie is silent for a moment, then he reaches out and touches one of the posts holding up the gazebo’s roof.

“When I was little, I used to think gazebo was the word for placebo,” he says.

Richie cracks up. “Holy shit, dude,” he says through his laughter. “I think that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

Eddie looks tentatively pleased to have made Richie laugh so hard.

“Why did you even know what placebo means anyway?” Richie asks, wiping tears from his eyes. 

When Eddie doesn’t answer, Richie looks over to see he’s lost in thought. 

“Eddie?” he asks. 

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot since the beach trip,” he says, suddenly.

Richie opens his mouth to ask why, but then he can’t ask why, because Eddie is kissing him.

And for a moment, Richie lets it happen. For a moment it feels like he’s floating, like there’s nothing else in the world but this gazebo. Eddie’s lips are thin but soft, and he has one hand curled in Richies collar and, for a moment, Richie kisses him back.

But then everything comes crashing down around him: Connor’s forced high school outing, _he just does whatever he wants_ , and Beverly, Richie’s Bev, giving her heart to the first guy since Tom Rogan and having it crushed, and she doesn’t even know why, and it’s _because of Eddie--_

Richie pushes Eddie away.

Eddie looks dazed and satisfied, mouth a little wet, but at the look on Richie’s face, his brow furrows.

“What?” he asks. “I thought you--”

“You thought I what?” Richie practically snarls. “You thought I wanted this?”

“When we danced,” Eddie says faintly. “You seemed--”

“That was before I knew what you did,” Richie says, standing but not leaving yet. He wants to put as much space between him and Eddie as possible, but now that he’s started laying in he doesn’t want to stop.

“What I _did_ \--?”

“Did you tell Ben not to date Bev?” Richie demands.

Eddie pales slightly, but he also sets his mouth in a determined grimace.

“I know Bev is your best friend, but Ben is mine and I did what I had to do to protect him.”

“Protect him?” Richie screeches. “From what? What, you think she’s got a katana hidden in those jumpsuits?”

“Ben was falling in love with her,” Eddie says. “It was clear she didn’t feel the same way, so yes, I reminded him that he tends to fall too fast and should back off.”

“What gave you the right to do that?”

“I was looking out for my friend! Beverly seems like a really nice girl, but she clearly wasn’t all in. She was keeping herself at a distance from him--”

“Oh, and that wouldn’t have anything to do with her recent divorce from her abusive ex-husband,” Richie says sarcastically.

That shuts Eddie up. He watches Richie in horror, which only eggs him on more.

“Connor was completely right about you,” Richie says triumphantly.

He was expecting Eddie to go even paler, knowing what Richie was about to say, but instead the shock leaves his face and is replaced with a dark cloud of anger that rivals the one above their heads. 

“Oh, I can’t wait,” he spits. “Tell me, what exactly did Connor Bowers say about me?”

“He told me about what you did in high school,” Richie says. 

Eddie’s mouth drops open. “What _I did?_ ”

“He told me how he trusted you, how you told everyone that he was gay--”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Eddie demands. “Richie, you fucking moron. Connor did that to _me_.”

This hits Richie like a freight train. He fumbles, but tries to power through.

“Oh, like I’m just supposed to believe you--”

“No, why would you?” Eddie laughs, dark and ugly. “But let me guess what else he said. He probably called me… manipulative, right? And controlling. That I take advantage of my friends’ money. But let me ask you this, Richie, since you two seem to be such good pals. Has he ever once paid?”

Richie doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to see the logic, but it’s undeniably true. He and Connor hung out several times after that first initial date and Connor always seemed to arrive just after the first card had been put down only to dash out before the final bill, citing some work emergency. Richie hadn’t wanted to see the pattern, because Connor made him feel good and special, which, now that he thinks about it, was probably intentional.

“That’s what I thought,” Eddie says to Richie’s silence. “That’s what happens when you point fingers, Richie. It takes the attention off of yourself, off of what you’re doing. And Connor’s been doing that since we were kids. That’s exactly why he outed me when we were in seventh grade, why he snuck into my room and stole my journal and made copies to post around the school and that’s why he laughed when all the other kids did and that’s why he stood by and let his cousin beat the shit out of me and Mike and Ben every day after school, why he let Henry almost kill us.”

Eddie breaks off, his chest heaving, fingers scrabbling in his pocket. He pulls out an inhaler and takes a puff. Richie watches him, speechless, useless. He doesn’t know what to say. It strikes him how often that happens around Eddie.

“But by all means, don’t take my word for it,” Eddie finally says, avoiding Richie’s eyes. “Ask Ben or Mike, if you want. Or just take a long, hard look at what you know about Connor Bowers and ask what he has to gain from lying and what I do.” He glares out at the rain. “You already hate me. What do I have to lose?”

Richie still can’t speak. He’s processing, running through every word, every gesture, every story. 

Eddie stands. “I’m,” he starts, stops for a moment, then continues, “I’m really sorry about Bev. I was wrong. I was presumptuous and judgmental. I sincerely apologize to you and I’ll apologize to Beverly, if you think I should. As for what happened before,” he hesitates, “we don’t have to talk about it. I get the message.” He looks back just once, catches Richie’s eye. There’s too much in that gaze for Richie to read; it’s sorrow and rage and something else he can’t put a finger on. But then it’s gone and Eddie is jogging away and Richie notices that Eddie was completely right.

It’s been ten minutes and the storm is over.

*

Richie crawls through his life for the next few weeks. Peggy is depending on him, so he still plays with Angela, cooks meals, does laundry, takes out the garbage, sleeps with the baby monitor some nights so Peggy and Adam can get some actual shut-eye. But he can tell he’s going through the motions, removed somehow.

The only time he feels at all like himself is when he is holding Richard, his tiny namesake. He sits in the rocking chair by the window and watches Eddie’s mother’s front door, waits for the moment every day that Eddie leaves to go on his run. He’s mesmerized, again, by how Eddie runs, how fluidly his body moves, taking him away, down the street, until Richie can’t see anymore.

“Did I fuck up, Richard?” he asks quietly, pressing his lips to his baby nephew’s fuzzy forehead. “Was I wrong?” He watches Eddie come back, panting heavily, hands on his knees. He can see the furrows in Eddie’s forehead from here, is struck by the desire to smooth them away. He remembers Eddie curled up in the patio chair, saying, “ _I didn’t have a great childhood sometimes”._ He wonders if there’s still things he doesn’t know.

He has texts from Bev, Bill, and Stan that he hasn’t looked at. The only text he’s sent has been to Connor telling him he better be out of his apartment by the time he gets back. Connor sent several follow-up texts with lots of exclamation points, but when Richie didn’t respond, he appeared to have gotten the hint and slithered away.

He’s drifting listlessly through his days when Peggy’s voice brings him uncomfortably back to earth: “We’re all going over to Mrs. Kaspbrak’s for dinner.”

“We’re what?” Richie asks, clutching Baby Richard to his chest. “No, we’re not. Me and Richard can’t. We’re, uh. We’re sick.” He coughs right on Richard’s head.

“Richie, don’t cough on my baby,” Peggy frowns, snatching him away. “And yes, you are going. Mrs. Kaspbrak invited us and she’s a nice old lady and Eddie has done a lot for us over the years so put on the nicest shirt you brought which I’m sure is still hideous and grab a bottle of wine and let’s _go._ ”

And when she uses that tone of voice, she sounds exactly like their mom and Richie doesn’t want to get grounded, so he goes to put on a nicer shirt (cactuses, but they’re small, so it’s remotely subtle) and he grumbles all the way across the street.

Eddie opens the door with a bright smile for Peggy, Adam, and the kids and a slightly dimmer one for Richie, who is following up their little train. He hands Eddie the wine sheepishly and says, “Hope you like Chardonnay.”

“I do,” Eddie says, examining the label. “And this will go perfectly with the chicken piccata. Thanks, Richie.”

It’s polite, measured and polished, things he and Eddie have never been, even at their worst. He misses Eddie scowling, Eddie yelling, Edde spilling uncomfortable truths, anything but this cold impersonality. 

Eddie leads them all into a shabby little dining room. Richie can tell everything in it is old, but well-loved and clean. Eddie’s mother sits at the head of the table. Richie doesn’t know her, has barely even just met her, but she reminds him immediately of a spider and he suddenly doesn’t want to sit down at the table, lest he be caught in her web.

“Mother, you remember Peggy and Adam,” Eddie gestures, “and Angela, their daughter. That’s their new baby, Richard. And this,” Eddie tugs lightly on Richie’s shirtsleeve and Richie’s entire arm breaks out in goosebumps, “is Richie, Peggy’s brother.”

“Peggy’s brother?” Mrs. Kaspbrak eyes him up and down. “You don’t have half her good looks, do you?”

Peggy snorts from behind him and Eddie says, scandalized, “Mother!”

“Oh, please,” Mrs. Kaspbrak says, waving him away. “You can coddle children, but you shouldn’t coddle adults. I’m sure your friend is aware of his shortcomings.”

“I am, ma’am,” Richie says, as seriously as he can, and she makes a gesture at Eddie as if to imply _see?_

“Now Peggy,” Mrs. Kaspbrak says. “Bring that baby over here. I assume he’s had all his shots?”

Richie follows Eddie to the kitchen with the pretense of helping with dinner, but as soon as he’s out of sight and earshot, he doubles over in laughter.

“I’m so sorry!” Eddie whispers, wringing his hands. It appears he’s forgotten his earlier coldness in light of this new embarrassment. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Richie manages to choke out. “God, it’s refreshing to hear someone tell the truth for once.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says, apparently done coddling him just like his mother. “You know you’re handsome.”

Richie gapes at him. “Me? I know that?”

Eddie blushes deeply and mutters a sentence under his breath, unintelligible except for the word ‘shoulders’.

“My shoulders, Eds?” Richie teases. “Have you been looking?”

“Shut _up,_ ” Eddie says. “And Eds? Where did that come from?”

“Just felt right,” Richie says smugly and so does this, standing in a warm kitchen, teasing Eddie while he cooks. 

“Are you going to help or not?” Eddie says, tossing Richie an oven mitt. 

“Eddie, I am here to serve,” Richie says seriously. “Just point me where you want me and please, use small words. I’m not a genius in the kitchen like you.”

Eddie grumbles but does give him short, easy instructions to follow. When they carry the chicken and the sides into the dining room, Mrs. Kaspbrak is still lecturing Peggy on the various illnesses that can infect newborns and Adam looks vaguely ill.

“Eddie, did you use the sodium free chicken broth like I asked?” she demands.

“Of course, Mother.”

“And did you--”

“Mother, I followed your recipe exactly,” Eddie says tiredly. “I promise, it is exactly to your standards.”

She sniffs at the steam rising out of the pan and frowns. “It still smells salty to me.”

They dig in and Eddie’s chicken piccata is just as, if not more, delicious than Eddie’s lasagna, so Richie is considering eating so much he passes out. He can tell Mrs. Kasbrak is eyeing him reproachfully as he takes another scoop. 

“So, what do you do, Richie?” she asks primly just as he’s taken a huge bite.

“Oh,” he says through the mouthful, swallowing as much as he can. It burns his throat and he gasps. “I’m, uh, a stand-up comedian.”

Mrs. Kaspbrak sniffs violently. “There’s money in that?”

“If you’re willing to dig for it,” Richie answers, which is his usual answer when someone asks how on earth he’s supporting himself on comedy.

“Richie does pretty well for himself,” Eddie says, but shrinks back when his mother snaps, “I wasn’t asking you, Eddie, I was asking Richie.”

“I do fine,” Richie says, giving Eddie an appreciative nod.

“That’s good,” she sniffs. “I’m glad you’re able to make that sort of… thing work for you.” She leans closer to Richie as if sharing a secret. “Eddie can’t work, you know.”

“Mother,” Eddie starts, but she glares at him.

“My Eddie has quite the delicate constitution. I try to keep him here as much as I can. The air quality in New York is quite dangerous. For everyone, really, but especially for my Eddie. His lungs, you know. He shouldn’t even really be leaving the house in his condition.”

Richie’s brain is putting pieces together: the reason Eddie knew about placebos as a child, the way he runs as if he’s proving to someone else that he can.

“Eddie seems very strong to me,” Richie says suddenly.

The whole table gapes at him, except for Angela, who has been calmly coloring the entire dinner and apparently not listening to any of them. 

“And what would you know about it?” Mrs. Kaspbrak asks stiffly. “You’re not his mother.”

“I see him run every day,” Richie says. Eddie closes his eyes in horror.

“You do not,” Mrs. Kaspbrak gasps. “Eddie can’t run, his lungs--”

“He can run and he does,” Richie says. He can hear his voice getting louder, but he can’t stop. “He’s a terrific runner. And he’s a strong person. He’s happy out in the world and if you cared about him, you’d want him to be out there living.”

“Get out of my house,” she orders, pointing a finger at the door.

“Gladly,” Richie says, throwing his napkin on the table and stalking out.

“Don’t worry, Peggy dear,” he hears her say as he crosses the foyer, “I don’t blame you for that. You can’t choose your family, after all…”

He slams the door behind him and stands on the porch, breathing like he’s just run a marathon, anger coursing through him. After a moment, the door swings open again and Eddie is marching towards him, his face stormy.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Richie says, immediately chagrined. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have told her you run, I just couldn’t--”

Eddie grabs Richie’s face and kisses him.

This time, Richie responds immediately, gathering Eddie into his arms and kissing him back with equal fierceness. He knows they haven’t worked out everything they need to, knows there’s still part of him that probably doesn’t trust Eddie, but he can’t help it. Eddie sighs into his mouth and Richie swallows it, pressing in deeper until they’re wrapped around each other so tightly Richie can’t tell where one stops and the other begins.

This time, it’s Eddie who suddenly shoves him away, gasping.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I said I wouldn't--”

“No, it’s okay,” Richie says, reaching for him, but Eddie is already leaving, already heading back into the house and shutting the door.

Richie drags himself back to Peggy’s house and curls up on the couch, where he stays, flicking idly through the channels until Peggy and the rest of the family return, not much later. Peggy comes in and sits on the couch next to him, placing a hand on his ankle in a way that feels comforting but not smothering. 

“Nice old lady, huh?” Richie says drily.

Peggy laughs. “All right, she’s a terrible old witch,” she admits. “But that chicken piccata, huh?”

Richie grins despite himself. “Worth it,” he says.

“So…” Peggy squeezes his ankle. “What’s up between you and Eddie?”

Richie covers his face and groans. “It’s so, so complicated, Peg.”

“I think he likes you a lot,” Peggy says.

Richie grabs a throw pillow and tries to smother himself.

“Stop trying to die to avoid the conversation,” she says, tugging it away.

“Never,” Richie says. “I’m like Yoda in Return of the Jedi.” He adopts a creaky little Muppet voice. “Mmm, rest, I need. Yes… rest. There is… another Sky… walker….”

Peggy levels him with an unimpressed gaze. “You’re impossible to talk to.”

“The Force runs strong in your family,” Richie continues to do his Yoda voice as she leaves the room. “Pass… on… what you have learned…”

His phone buzzes. He glances at it. He’s been avoiding responding to anything, but this catches his eye. Underneath Bev’s last text (“ _Are you ever coming hooooooooome”)_ is a simple: _So, Ben just called me._

Richie types: _??? and????_

She responds: _Oh, good to know you’re alive_

_shut up I’ve been busy. babies are fucking exhausting. call me!!!_

The phone immediately lights up with her call.

“So?” he asks.

“So, he apologized,” Bev says. “He says that he took some advice he shouldn’t have and trusted someone else’s intuition before his own and that he knew it was a stupid mistake and he didn’t want to lose me.”

“That’s... positive,” Richie says. “You don’t sound enthused.”

Bev sighs. “I don’t know. When he was telling me, I felt giddy and I was so happy that he had called and then when we hung up and I just felt empty. Like, no one made him do that. We were doing so well and then he just bailed.”

“Did you ever talk to him about taking it slow?” Richie asks.

“No,” Bev says. Richie can almost see her pouting and picking at her nails. 

“You should tell him,” Richie says. “I don’t think you need to detail your whole traumatic backstory, but I think you do need to talk about the things that involve him.”

“Ugh, I know you’re right,” Bev groans. “When did you become wise?”

“I didn’t,” Richie says. “Believe me, Bev, I’m a fucking idiot.”

*

Peggy finally kicks him out after he’s been there a month.

“I love you, thank you for all of your help, we couldn’t have done it without you, now get out,” she says, dragging his bag out from under the bed and dropping in onto his stomach. 

“Wow, I can feel your gratitude,” Richie says.

“Rich,” Peggy says gently. “It’s stopped feeling like you came here to help and more like you came here to hide.”

“What the fuck,” Richie says. “How long did it take you to think of that?”

  
“All day,” Peggy says primly. “Now pack.”

Richie packs, kisses Richard a hundred times (“Goodbye, Little Richard,” he mourns. “Don’t call him that,” Peggy snaps), gives Angela a big hug (she couldn’t care less), says a somewhat tearful goodbye to his sister and brother-in-law, and then he’s in his car and off to the airport.

When he gets home to his apartment, he’s thrilled to see that his plants aren’t dead, his mail is neatly stacked, the key is on the table, and Connor is nowhere to be found. Part of him wondered if Connor would force him into some sort of confrontation, but he should have known that wasn’t Connor’s style. 

He finally texts Bill and Stan back; they give him an equally hard time about his absence. He then calls his agent and his publicist to let them know they can start booking again. He knows he’ll probably have eight hundred meetings come tomorrow morning, so he decides to make the best of his last night as a free man and watch TV until he passes out.

He was right. The morning brings endless phone calls, emails, phone meetings, the scheduling of in-person meetings, contracts to e-sign, people to suck up to, jobs to plan for. His writing team sends a new routine for him to glance over and he winces as he sees it’s the usual schlock.

 _Can we talk about me writing more?_ he texts his manager.

 _Sure, anytime you want, buddy_ , he answers.

_Now. Can we talk about it now._

Steve calls him and they yell at each other for an hour or so until Steve agrees he’ll talk to the agent and the publicist and they’ll talk to the team and Richie will be heard. Maybe for the next special.

It’s not nothing, so Richie decides to reward himself by walking to his favorite sandwich spot. He’s sitting outside, about to dig into his BLT, when he hears a surprised, “Richie.”

He looks up to find Eddie standing over him, holding a sandwich and a laptop case and looking somewhat terrified. Richie probably looks the same way.

“You’re back,” Eddie says. 

_"You’re_ back,” Richie echoes. When Eddie doesn’t say anything else, Richie adds, “How’s your mother?”

Eddie’s shoulders drop and he laughs. Richie suddenly realizes that he loves making Eddie laugh. He suddenly realizes that he might want to kiss that laughing mouth again.

“She didn’t have a heart attack after you yelled at her, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says. “But I’m here, aren’t I?”

“In Pollutionville, New York,” Richie says. “Imagine that.”

“Imagine that,” Eddie echoes him this time, smiling.

Richie motions to the laptop bag. “Are you here to work?” he asks. “I thought you were too fragile for that.”

“She just says that,” Eddie rolls his eyes. “I work in insurance, but it’s mostly remote.”

“Well,” Richie gestures to his table. “Step into my office.”

“Really?” Eddie hesitates. “I don’t want to bother you--”

“You’re not,” Richie says. “It’ll help to have you here, actually. I might actually get some writing done.”

Eddie perks up. “You’re writing?” he asks.

Richie blushes a little. “Yeah, you, uh. Made a point that morning at the beach. It’d be nice to write my own material, at least some of it. I talked to my manager about it.”

“Richie,” Eddie says earnestly, sitting down across from him. “That’s great.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Richie says, somewhat embarrassed. “It might be stupid and then they won’t let me do it.”

“It won’t be,” Eddie says confidently, unzipping his laptop bag and setting up his work station. “You’re funny.”

“Well, you would know, Eds, you’re my number one fan.”

Eddie ignores him and squints at his laptop screen. Richie takes this as his cue to open his notebook and start jotting down joke ideas he’s been thinking about.

They work in relative silence for almost an hour, Eddie muttering, “Utter moron,” every once in a while and Richie responding lazily, “Get ‘em, Eddie.”

Their sandwiches long gone, Richie stretches his arms over his head. It’s been an oddly good day so far; maybe he’ll go home and have a nap--

His phone suddenly lights up and starts buzzing uncontrollably. It’s not a call; the notifications are coming in fast but intermittent and it sounds like an angry bee caught in a glass.

“What’s happening with you?” Eddie asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Richie says, picking up his phone and hissing. It’s already warm to the touch. There are alerts flying in from both Twitter and Instagram, but Richie can barely scroll fast enough to see where the original one came from. When he finally sees it, his heart leaps into his throat.

 _“ Perks of being Richie Tozier’s boyfriend”_ the instagram caption reads, posted by user connor.bowers. The pictures are all in Richie’s apartment. The first is a view from his bedroom window of Central Park, the second of his rumpled bed, a framed photo of him and Bev clearly staged to look accidental. He flicks through them, thinking maybe there isn’t anything too obvious, until he reaches the last one and closes his eyes. It’s a picture of his Emmy for Outstanding Guest Actor in a Comedy Series, with his name plainly inscribed on the base. He won it for hosting SNL. Connor is kissing it.

“I’m gonna throw up,” he says. 

“Richie, what’s going on?” Eddie demands.

Richie takes a deep breath. “Remember how I told you I wasn’t _out_ -out?” Eddie nods, and Richie turns the phone to show him. “I guess that isn’t exactly true anymore.”

Eddie takes the phone. Richie sees the line between his eyes get deeper and deeper as he flicks through the photos.

“That rat bastard,” Eddie whispers. His hands are shaking. “Richie, I’m turning off your notifications and I’m calling Bev and Stan.”

“Eddie,” Richie whispers. He feels cold and shivery, like he has a fever.

“Richie, I’m going to get him,” Eddie says, holding up the phone to his ear. “I fucking promise you, I’m going to make him pay. Bev? It’s Eddie. Can you be at Richie’s as soon as possible?”

Eddie forcibly removes him from his chair and hustles him down the street. Richie barely sees where he’s going, so Eddie’s hand on his elbow is his guiding light. He can’t even really tell how long the walk is; moments feel like hours with all the thoughts swirling in his head.

Bev, bless her, is waiting outside Richie’s building when they arrive, talking on her phone as well. “Stan’s on his way,” she says, grabbing Richie and pulling him into a tight hug.

“I have to go,” Eddie says. “Take care of him, Bev, please.”

And then he’s gone, striding down the street, nearly knocking down several other pedestrians as he stabs his phone.

Bev bundles Richie upstairs and immediately makes him tea. Stan arrives a few minutes later and just sits with Richie on the couch, a silent but dependable statue, as Bev bustles around, doing chores and acting busy.

None of them speak for hours. Richie’s phone is blessedly silent, Eddie having turned off all of his notifications and set his phone to airplane mode. Bev and Stan stare at theirs, pretending they aren’t scrolling Twitter, but it’s evident from their frequent scowls.

After a long time has passed, Richie croaks, “How bad is it?”

Bev looks at him, distressed, fiddling with her hair. “It’s not that it’s bad, Rich,” she says finally. “For the most part, people aren’t like, saying bad things.”

“If they are, I’ll kill them,” Stan mutters.

“It’s just that it’s everywhere,” Bev says. “And he hasn’t stopped. He posted another picture--”

“Show me,” Richie demands.

Bev hesitates, then turns her phone to show him. 

It’s one of him and Connor’s fleeting kisses, a barely-there, corner of the mouth deal. Richie’s eyes are closed. Of course they are. His eyes had been closed every moment they’d spent together.

Richie does throw up this time, barely making it to the bathroom before losing the tea and the sandwich and what feels like everything he’s ever put into his body. 

Bev and Stan rub his back to get him through it and shepherd him through the act of brushing his teeth and getting a glass of water. 

“Do you think you need to call Steve?” Stan asks tentatively. 

Richie winces, but it’s not like Steve is going to magically disappear while his phone is on airplane mode, so he toggles the little slider and immediately closes his eyes. Twitter and Instagram are quiet, but he has 463 new texts.

He only looks at three of his threads: his mother’s (“ _Love you, honey, call when you can”_ ), Peggy’s (“ _Love from me and Adam, the guest bedroom is yours if you need it”)_ and his personal favorite, Bill’s _(“THAT PIECE OF SHIT GIMME HIS ADDRESS I’LL FUCK HIM UP”)._

He calls Steve, who apparently has the humanity not to yell at him, just calmly listens to Richie’s side of the story and then walks him through his options. Denial, which makes Richie feel sick again. Silence, which just feels like stalling. And acceptance. Richie chooses Door Number Three. Steve says he’ll work with Ella, his publicist, to have a statement drafted by the end of the day that Richie can edit and post whenever he wants and then he hangs up.

“He seems like a good manager,” Bev says.

“He is,” Richie says. 

“You’re going to make a statement?” Stan asks.

“Yeah,” Richie says, squeezing his phone until it hurts. “It’s stupid because I’m basically saying, ‘Yeah I’m gay, just not dating this tool’.”

“Weirder statements have been made,” Stan says with a small smile.

“Yeah,” Richie says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “You know what’s crazy about all this, though?” He shakes his head. “It isn’t even the outing that sucks the most. Sure, it sucks and I’m sure I’ll have to have a million meetings about how to retain my fanbase and I don’t know if this means putting off the writing I want to do, but whatever. It sucks, but I can deal with it.” He thumps his fist hard against a pillow. “What I can’t fucking stand is that he came in here and he touched my shit. Everything feels dirty now. He took those pictures. He _planned_ this. And I can never get that back. I can’t go back to that bar and tell him to fuck off. I can’t go back and unhear all the lies he told me. I can’t un-yell at Eddie--”

He snaps his mouth shut in realization, but the damage is done. Stan’s forehead crinkles.

“Yell at Eddie?” 

“Yeah, wait a second,” Bev says. “I didn’t think about it because I was so worried about you, but why were you with Eddie when this happened?”

Richie winces. “Can I please pull the ‘forcibly outed’ card to get out of this conversation?”

Bev and Stan fold their arms in tandem like some kind of nightmare twins.

“Dish,” says Bev.

“Spill,” says Stan.

Richie sighs, and he does.

He tells them about the gazebo and the kiss, the fight, the weeks spent afterwards watching Eddie run, run, run, the dinner, the second kiss, the lunch where it seemed to be coming together and then fell apart.

“Where did he go?” Stan asks, bewildered.

“He just said he was going to ‘make him pay’,” Richie says.

“You _kissed_ in a _gazebo_ in the _rain?_ ” Bev shrieks. “Richie Tozier, how could you keep this from me?”

“It was a confusing moment!” Richie protests. “I thought I hated him, but it was… I don’t know.”

“Do you… like him?” Stan whispers, hugging a pillow to his chest.

Richie shrugs, but he can feel his face heating up, which probably says it all.

Bev’s phone buzzes and she glances at it, then winces.

“Richie,” she says. “Ben is here and he really wants to see you.”

Richie flops back onto the couch and makes a half-hearted waving motion.

“Sure, why not,” he says. “Someone call Bill, while we’re at it.”

“No joke, he has called me sixteen times,” Stan says. “So I think he’d appreciate an invite, too.”

“Fine,” Richie twirls his hand again. “Let’s make this a real party. Tell Bill to bring booze.”

Bev opens the door to reveal Ben, who looks bleary-eyed and a little manic. He hesitates in the doorway, until Richie says, “Well, get in here,” at which point he stumbles into the apartment and throws himself onto Richie. 

“Oh,” Richie says. “Not what I expected.” He pats Ben on the bicep. “There, there, giant mountain.”

“This is all my fault,” Ben says, his voice weak and trembly. “I should have told Bev what I knew about Connor, instead I tried to be all nice, nice, nice, that’s my problem, I can never speak my mind and first Eddie, and now you and it’s all my fault.”

“Ben,” Richie says firmly. “Did you take those pictures?

Ben shakes his head. 

“Did you give Connor a key to my apartment?”

“No,” he says, big brown eyes wet.

“Then it isn’t your fault, you big lug. You’re a good person who’s only ever been nice to me and I won’t let you sit on my couch and beat yourself up. Bev, come get your man.”

Bev, with surprising strength, hauls Ben off of the couch and walks him into the kitchen. “Come on, sweetie,” she says. “I’ll make you some tea.”

As promised, Bill arrives shortly after, with Mike and several handles of hard liquor in tow. He’s also carrying a balloon that says, “It’s A Boy!”

“They didn’t have any that said ‘Sorry You Were Forcibly Outed’,” Bill says apologetically, handing it over. “But I thought this one sort-of worked.”

Mike sighs. “I begged him not to.”

Richie stares at the balloon for a second before bursting into hysterical laughter.

“It’s a boy,” he wheezes. “God, Bill, you are the best person to have around in a situation like this.”

“Cheers,” Bill says, handing Richie a shot.

They get absolutely wasted, all six of them, and when they run out of booze, Stan calls Patty and she brings more. Richie knows his life is objectively terrible right now: he might not have a career tomorrow and there’s probably people calling him awful names on the internet, but when he looks around at the people in this room, he actually feels weirdly lucky. The only thing that hurts, the only empty thing, is that he wishes Eddie were here too. He tries not to feel too upset that Eddie hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. Does Eddie even have his number? He could get it from Ben. Why hasn’t he called?

Richie can feel the melancholies creeping into his thoughts, so he sits up and demands they play Kings until they all pass out, which is exactly what happens.

They all wake the next morning, strewn across the floor, their mouths dry and their heads pounding. Ben, who seems the freshest, although he keeps wincing when he moves too quickly, cooks them all eggs and they sit quietly and eat. 

Richie checks his email and finds the statement Steve and Ella wrote for him in his inbox. It’s simple and straightforward, acknowledging that Connor was someone who Richie had been getting close to, but that their relationship had ended long before the photos were posted. 

_If we were ever together_ , it reads _, we certainly aren’t now._

The statement goes on to thank his fans for their support, blah blah, platitudes, platitudes. There’s only one line Richie changes. The last line once said, _I am still the same Richie you’ve always known and that will never change._ He knows what Steve was trying to say, but he backspaces and writes, _I’m not the same Richie and I don’t want to be._ He pauses and adds, _I’m excited to finally be myself._

He opens Twitter and Instagram just to post it, fighting the urge to check his hundreds of notifications. He can tell when everyone reads it, because they all look over the tops of their phones to smile at him. 

“You guys have a Google alert for my name or something?” Richie asks, trying to be grumpy but knowing it comes out pleased.

“I had one long before this,” Stan says.

“Oh my _god_ , why are you so _obsessed_ with me?”

Ben leaves first, apologetically, saying he has to get to work. Bill and Mike aren’t far behind; apparently they’re working on Bill’s book together and they have a deadline. Patty heads home as well, but Stan stays, along with Bev, like the two of them have some pact to keep Richie company. He feels a little bad that their lives are on pause for him, but he’s also deeply grateful to them for staying. He knows the second he’s alone, he’s going down an internet spiral that only ends at the bottom of a bottle of tequila.

They laze around all day, Bev sprawled on her stomach on the floor, Stan with his laptop at the table. They take turns reading positive messages from other celebrities and fans. Some even make Richie teary. He knows they’re protecting him from the worst of it, but when he finally gets brave and checks his texts, he finds that the vast majority are loving and supportive. There are a couple shitty ‘lose my number’ messages from the odd comic he’s befriended over the years on improv nights and he’s more than happy to oblige.

Stan makes them dinner and they watch old movies on TCM until Bev insists he sleep in his own bed. He pretends he’s too tired to move until she threatens him, at which point he whispers, “He was sleeping there, Bev.”

“Honey,” she says, exasperated. “Washing your sheets was the first thing I did when Stan got here.” 

He almost cries with relief.

They’re eating breakfast the next morning (cereal... without Ben, they’re far too lazy to cook) when Stan says, “Holy shit,” and drops his phone.

“What now?” Richie asks tiredly, but it’s like Stan barely hears him, scrabbling for his phone and then staring at the screen as if in shock.

“Holy shit,” he says again. “Holy _shit,_ Bev. Look at your alerts.”

Frowning, Bev opens her phone, presumably checks her email, and her eyes bug out.

“Holy shit,” she says.

“What?” Richie whines, grabbing for it. Bev, shockingly, lets it go. Richie takes one look at the headline of the article, _RICHIE TOZIER’S EX-BOYFRIEND SUED FOR FRAUD_ and drops the phone.

“Holy _SHIT!_ ” Richie yells.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Stan holds up a hand excitedly and begins to read aloud, “‘Connor Bowers, recently in the news for his romantic entanglement with comedian Richie Tozier, is currently being sued for the fraudulent use of over ten thousand dollars. The plaintiff, Edward Kaspbrak of Maine, claims a legal contract was drawn up in 2012 which Bowers is now in violation of, owing the plaintiff the sum agreed upon in the contract, plus interest. This could mean a minimum of one year in prison.’”

“Prison?” Richie gasps. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Less than he deserves,” Stan says darkly.

“Is there anything else?” Bev asks, scrolling herself.

“A lot of legal stuff, etcetera, oh, wait! ‘When asked why the plaintiff waited almost the length of the statute of limitations, six years since the discovery of the fraud in the state of Maine, to begin filing the claim, Kaspbrak answered, “Connor Bowers is a menace to society. I let my own pride get in the way of public good and it’s time he faces consequences for his actions.”’” 

They sit in silence for a moment, taking it all in.

“Maine,” Richie says after a moment. “He filed in Maine. He _drove to Maine_ two days ago to file this claim and then, what? Talked to a reporter? He did this in two days, you guys. He did this…” He trails off, then looks up at Bev and Stan. “Do you think he did this for me?”

Bev and Stan both look at him like he’s grown a third head. The “ _Obviously, dumbass”_ hangs in the air, unspoken.

“Fuck,” Richie says. “I have to go to Maine.”

Bev helps him pack, and Stan throws him his car keys. He knows driving will take longer than flying, but he doesn’t want to deal with security and strangers, so he takes them gratefully.

He drives. He drives and drives, through Connecticut and Massachusetts, blazing through New Hampshire into Maine, seeing all of New England before him and thinking only _Eddie, Eddie, Eddie._

Eddie at the party, callous and rude, but apologetic after, making sure to compliment him on his shark swim trunks and smiling at his socks. Eddie, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the sun. Eddie, who can’t swing dance, but who makes the best chicken piccata Richie’s ever had. Eddie, who’s been hurt, by his mother, by people he thought were his friends, by Richie. Eddie, who forgives. Eddie, who decimates. Richie feels like he could know him backwards and forwards and still spend centuries learning every single little thing about him. He can’t wait to start. 

*

He pulls up to Peggy’s house and, before he’s even out of the car, Peggy is out of her house and flinging herself onto him.

“Rich, I’m so sorry,” she says and it takes Richie a second to even remember what it is she could be sorry about.

“Peg, it’s okay,” he says. “I’m not here to hide. I’m here for Eddie.”

“Eddie?” Peggy asks, bewildered. Richie folds his arm around her shoulder and tells her the story as they walk inside together.

Peggy makes him repeat the whole thing for Adam and they’re just sitting at the kitchen table taking all of this in, when Richie feels a tug on his sleeve and looks down to see Angela.

“Hi, Jelly,” Richie says. “Can I have a hug?”

“No,” Angela says. “But I drawed you this.”

It’s his portrait, wearing big black glasses and a toothy smile, and his shirt has multicolored swirls on it, but the star of the piece of the massive rainbow behind his head. Angela used sixteen different colors.

“Peggy,” Richie chokes, “take this away from me before I cry all over it.”

After dinner, Peggy bullies him into Facetiming with their mom and dad. He’d been out to them for ages, but they love every opportunity to tell him they love him and that they’re proud of him. They also offer to hire a hitman to handle Connor.

“I think it’s handled, but I’ll let you know,” Richie sniffs, wiping his eyes.

“I’d honestly take pleasure in doing it myself,” Maggie says. Went is busy doing the YMCA in the background.

“Plausible deniability, I’m hanging up. Goodbye, old people,” Richie says, and sets down his phone.

“Are you going to tell them about Eddie?” Peggy asks.

“When there’s something to tell,” Richie says, frowning slightly. He’d texted Edde, for the very first time, to say _I’m in Derry_ a few hours ago, but no response yet. “I haven’t heard from him.”

As if on cue, there’s a knock at the door. Richie and Peggy glance at each other in surprise, clearly hoping for the same thing, and Peggy goes to answer it. The door swings open and in marches, not Eddie, but his mother. Her eyes dart around the room and land on Richie.

“You!” she bellows.

He waggles his fingers at her. “Hi again, Mrs. Kaspbrak.”

She seems to swell up with fury. She’s wearing a very loud tracksuit with reflective panels; it hurts Richie’s eyes.

“You’re the reason Eddie dredged up that horrible situation with that awful boy,” she bites. “You’re the reason he’s going to run himself into the ground with legal fees. I don’t know what you said to him, what you’ve promised him--”

“Richie had nothing to do with this,” Peggy steps in, glaring. “Mrs. Kaspbrak, Eddie knows what he’s doing and if Connor owes him the money--”

“Of course he owes him the money!” she shrieks. “Connor came to Eddie years ago, asking for money for school, and Eddie drew on his father’s life insurance money to help him. He’s a good boy, a sweet boy, who horrible men take advantage of and I won’t let you be another--”

“Mrs. Kaspbrak,” Richie interrupts. “I’m in love with your son.”

He doesn’t know how true the words are until they leave his mouth.

He seems to have rendered the whole room speechless. Mrs. Kaspbrak is gaping at him, like she didn’t know organisms of his species could feel something like love.

“I’m in love with Eddie,” he says. “And maybe you’re right that this lawsuit is a huge mistake and maybe Connor Bowers won’t get what’s coming to him, but I’m going to be there with Eddie every step of the way, supporting him, and I don’t care if I have your approval, because I don’t need it. I just need Eddie.”

Mrs. Kaspbrak’s jaw snaps shut and she narrows her eyes at him.

“I don’t like the way you talk to me,” she says. “I’ve told Eddie, I don’t like it.”

“Well, you better get used to it,” Richie says. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Mrs. Kaspbrak turns up her nose, spins on her heel, and sweeps out of the room, slamming the door behind her as she goes.

“Well, fuck, Rich,” Adam says, breaking the tension, and Richie sinks into a chair.

“That may have been a mistake,” he says, mostly to himself.

Something still feels wrong. His heart is threatening to burst out of his chest, the refrain of _Eddie, Eddie, Eddie_ still ringing in his ears, but he realizes with a jolt that Eddie still hasn’t answered his text.

What if he has this all wrong? Eddie hadn’t really said he was doing this for him. He’d implied it, Richie supposes, when he said _I fucking promise you, I’m going to make him pay._ But maybe he just felt culpable, like Ben. Maybe he was staring at his phone, wondering why the hell Richie followed him to Maine.

Peggy and Adam seem to sense that the fight has gone out of him, so they busy themselves cleaning up for the evening and let Richie drag himself to the familiar guest room. He’s still avoiding most social media, but Bev has been sending him Connor Bowers memes all day and Richie flips through them, chuckling with perverse enjoyment. Connor, apparently, has deleted his posts and gone silent on social media, but there are some paparazzi photos of him looking harried and stressed, his perfect hair limp across his forehead.

The rest of the house falls quiet, Angela and Richie asleep in their beds, Peggy and Adam puttering softly around downstairs before creeping off to bed themselves. Richie lays awake, writing jokes in his Notes app and staring at his text to Eddie. The man Richie loves does not have read receipts turned on (which Richie will discuss with him at some point) so there’s no way to know if he hasn’t seen it, or he’s seen and it been too busy to respond, or he’s seen it and is actively ignoring Richie and hoping he’ll go away. 

The hours pass and Richie tosses and turns. There’s something both lonely and emancipating about being the only one awake in a house full of people. The empty space inside him -- _the Eddie space,_ he thinks -- growls and demands and weeps and goes quiet. He can’t get comfortable, his legs restless.

It’s only in the early, early hours of the morning that he realizes where he needs to go. 

He lets himself out of the house as quietly as possible, holding his shoes in his hand. He checks his phone again to make sure he knows where he’s going and sets off down the road.

He walks along the street for a while before venturing off the road into the woods, where a little bike path winds through the trees. The sun is just barely beginning to poke its way through the leaves, so the trek feels just on the edge of danger, like monsters could be watching from the shadows, curling their long fingers around tree trunks, reaching their rotting hands out of the soft ground to grab his ankles. He doesn’t fear them. He’s never been here before, but something in him seems to know the way. 

When he finally reaches the quarry, it’s just as Eddie described, a steep cliff looking over green water, the sun glimmering gently on the edge of the world, and Eddie, sitting on a fallen tree, gazing out at the horizon. He turns, like he knew Richie was coming, and smiles softly.

“How did you know?” he asks.

Richie stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. 

“Best sunrise in the world, or so I’m told,” he says.

Eddie snorts and looks back at the growing sunlight. “Or at least the northeastern United States.” He fiddles with his sleeve. “I haven’t seen too much of the world.”

“Me neither,” Richie says and goes to join him on the log, letting their knees brush.

They sit in silence for a few moments before Eddie sighs.

“God, Richie,” he says. “I’m just. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re _sorry_?” Richie gapes at him. “Eddie, why the fuck are you sorry?”

“I should have told you the minute I saw you with Connor what he was capable of,” Eddie says, folding his fingers together so tightly they turn white. “But I was so embarrassed to admit what he did to me that I let you get hurt, too.”

“I might not have listened,” Richie reminds him.

“But I still could have told you,” Eddie says bitterly. “And I know I can’t take back what he’s done, but I hope… I don’t even need to win the suit. I just hope he feels embarrassed and shamed and… and fucking _miserable_ for what he did to you.”

“What about what he did to you?” Richie says and, before he can stop himself, he takes Eddie’s hands, rubs the color back into them.

Eddie ducks his head. “I should have known,” he says. “When he came to me, crying and apologizing, and begging to reconcile, I should have never given him the money. It was stupid and I’ve felt stupid for it every day since.”

“You wanted to believe the best in him,” Richie says, cradling Eddie’s hands in his. “That’s not stupid.”

Eddie is silent for a few moments.

“I read your statement,” he finally says. “I’m really proud of you.”

“I’m proud of me, too,” Richie says, grinning and nudging Eddie with his knee.

“I also,” Eddie takes a shuddering breath, “I also heard my mom came to see you last night.” 

“Yeah, she did,” Richie grins, laughing when Eddie glares. “No, but. Yeah, we exchanged some words.”

“She told me,” Eddie says, and Richie’s pulse quickens. “Richie… when I got your text, I-- I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t even _hope_ , in case I was wrong. I’ve done a shitty job leaving you alone when I said I would, and so if you want me to, if after this, we go our separate ways, then I’m. I promise you, I’m okay with that.

“But if you… if what you said to her, if you _meant_ it, Rich,” Eddie finally looks up at him, his eyes shining, and Richie feels like he could fall into them and never want to land. “Then I-- I have to tell you… me, too. It’s the same for me.”

Richie leans forward and kisses him. The feeling that rushes through him when their lips touch could fill a thousand books, a million love songs. It’s like setting out and coming home, like being young and growing old, the juxtaposition, the contradiction, the mystery, the familiar, the same, the safe. Every moment leads here, this fallen tree, Eddie’s hands in his, the best sunrise on Earth.

When they finally part, Eddie is blushing, so Richie can’t help but reach up to squeeze his cheeks. Eddie slaps them away, laughing, which just makes Richie want to kiss him again, so he does. 

They wind up watching the rest of the sunrise together, Eddie leaning back onto Richie’s chest, Richie’s arms wound around him, chin resting on Eddie’s shoulder. Richie nudges Eddie’s cheek with his nose.

“The sun is rising just for you,” he says and he can feel Eddie smile against his lips.

“No,” Eddie says. “It’s rising just for us.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful and patient beta Anna (on AO3 at AnnaMcb24) and thanks to everyone for reading! I hope you enjoyed this silly little P&P AU; every fandom needs at least ten. Come say hi at @beepbeeplizzie on twitter & tumblr :)


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